


a xenobiologist and a chaotician walk into a bar

by buckgaybarnes



Series: a xenobiologist and a chaotician walk into a bar [1]
Category: Jurassic Park Original Trilogy (Movies), Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: 2017 is the year of getting dicked down by jeff goldblum, Age Difference, Height difference, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Praise Kink, Pre-Canon, Riding, allusions to the Passionate letter exchange, bonus newt/herm preslash pining because i'm a romantic, ian malcolm has approximately one pickup line, oh god such an age difference, weak plot contrivances to get them in the same place at the same time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-20
Updated: 2017-12-20
Packaged: 2019-02-17 15:56:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,624
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13080282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Newt may be a kaiju groupie, but he is, first and foremost, an Ian Malcolm groupie.(or: that fic set in 2016 or so, where newt is a spry young mid-twentysomething with aspirations of greatness, namely, seducing sixtysomething ian malcolm for all of us.)





	a xenobiologist and a chaotician walk into a bar

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by a conversation with a friend about how ian malcolm is absolutely newt's fictional crush, which quickly spiraled into "they exist in the same universe" and then, sparked by my jeff goldblum thirst getting ramped up to 100 after thor ragnarok and the new jurassic park trailer, "they exist in the same universe and also they fucked at one point". 
> 
> (alternatively titled: “isn’t it chaotic”, "[poe dameron voice] keep it, it suits you ;-)”, or, “i googled jeff goldblum and charlie day’s heights and almost started screaming”.
> 
> assumes a universe where the events of the jurassic park film actually took place within the pac rim universe in 1993 and the characters are minor celebrities or some shit, and that out of everything this kind of universe would imply, all the scientific breakthroughs and innovation, i chose to run with "the hunky chaos man bones the small loud one"
> 
> don't expect accurate science talk. i'm an english major, goddammit

Newt doesn’t, strictly, have much business being at this conference, or really any, but the second Dr. Ian Malcolm— _Dr. Ian Malcolm!_ —got added to the guest speaker list, Newt sent no less than ten emails to the organizers pleading for an invite until he finally wore them down. Or annoyed them to the extent that they’d’ve literally done anything to shut him up. Either way, Newt’s spending his Saturday morning at the airport trying not to have a panic attack over the fact that he’ll be in the same building as his childhood idol in a few hours.

Newt felt a pang of guilt, at first, over not letting slip to Hermann his intentions to come to this thing until he was en route to catching the flight there; math, obviously, is more Hermann’s forte than Newt’s, so Hermann not only had an excuse for going, but he was  _actually_ invited.  _I wish you’d told me you were going_ , Hermann texted him,  _I wouldn’t have turned down the offer._  Which makes Newt feel like the worst person in the world, ever, and he’s more than sure Hermann’s feelings are hurt. But, look, Newt has good intentions and all that. He doesn’t want their first meeting to be overshadowed by  _Dr. Ian Malcolm_ , because there’s no way Newt would be able to focus on anything—or anyone—else.

See—Newt’s been following Dr. Malcolm’s research obsessively since he was old enough to understand basic scientific rhetoric, even if it had little to do with any of the multiple disciplines he inevitably pursued. The man is a rock star. The man is a genius. The man saw actual, living, (cloned) dinosaurs up close  _twice_ , and  _lived_ , which is more badass than anything Newt can possibly imagine. Besides the dinosaurs. (Barring the ethical issues cloning raises.) Dr. Malcolm is also, conveniently, super hot, and Newt spent his sexual awakening jerking off to a picture of him he ripped out of a  _TIME_ magazine from the library and tacked up on his bedroom wall next to his  _X-Files_ poster, so he feels like he owes it to himself.

It’s not like Dr. Malcolm makes a lot of public appearances anymore, either—and Newt would know. This is the first talk he’s given in  _years._

“It’s a personal growth thing, man, not a  _I secretly hate you_ thing!” he insists to Hermann, phone wedged between his ear and his shoulder as he digs around in his pockets for his boarding pass, which he’s somehow managed to lose already. The gate attendant is getting progressively more irritated with him, but Hermann’s texts sounded uncharacteristically, well,  _sad_ , and Newt needs to make sure he doesn’t hate him or whatever. “This is the, like, the climax chapter in the Bildungsroman of my life. Where all the—oh, fuck me—” He drops his apartment keys and a box of candy cigarettes—which promptly bursts open—on the ground, and scrambles to pick them up. “—where all the loose ends get tied up, and shit.”

Newt still has only the vaguest sense of what Hermann looks like—he’s sent approximately  _one_ selfie in the near four years they’ve been writing, so Newt’s resigned himself to scouring the internet for newspaper articles and old university photos like a creep—but he can almost see the look of disdain Hermann’s sending him from across the pond. “ _Oh no, no_ ,” Hermann says, staticky from the shitty cell reception Newt’s getting in the terminal but still fucking sarcastic as hell, the bastard, “ _go run off to meet your hack of a boyfriend. I’m sure you’ll have a_ grand  _time talking pseudoscience all weekend. I’d hate to get in the way._ ”

“He’s not my boyfriend!” Newt exclaims, shoving the candy back into his pocket—they’re good, he’s a functional adult with a healthy diet. “And you can’t just— _shit-talk_ an entire branch of scientific theory because you’re  _jealous_.” Hermann sputters indignantly on the other end.

The gate attendant kicks his keys towards him. “Can you please stop arguing with your girlfriend and get off the phone already?” he sighs. “You’re holding up the line.”

“ _B_ _oyfriend_ ,” Newt snaps at the guy automatically, and immediately feels his face heating up. Hermann’s suspiciously silent. “I mean my not boyfriend. He’s a guy, but we’re not dating yet—I mean at all—we’ve never actually met—we’re just—pen pals? BFFs?”

" _Colleagues,_ " Hermann says icily.

“I’m allowed to have other mathematicians in my life, Hermann!”

“Oh my  _God."_   The attendant yanks the boarding pass out of the front pocket of Newt’s coat on his own, because apparently it’s been there the entire time, whoops. “Get on the plane.”

 

~*~

 

The flight isn’t too bad, and Newt makes it to his hotel in good time. He shoots Hermann a quick  _I landed and I’m not dead_ text (Hermann doesn’t reply; he’s apparently decided on the silent treatment after he declared Newt could see  _thousands_ of mathematicians for all he cared! Ian Malcolm groupie! and then unceremoniously hung up) and starts rifling through his suitcase for something moderately nice to wear. He lays out all of the clothing he packed, or really over-packed, pokes through it half-heartedly, and then gives up and calls Hermann twice.

Hermann picks up only when he calls another three times after that. " _Have you been disillusioned already? My condolences, Newton_.”

Newt ignores him. “What would I need to wear if I wanted to,” he mimes crudely with his hand, then remembers he’s on the phone, “like, turn you on?”

Hermann hangs up. Newt calls another two times.

" _No_ ," Hermann greets him cheerfully.

“Mathematician’s opinion,” Newt begs. “Tell me how your kind's brains work.”

" _No_."

“What’s something that I would look super sexy in?”

“ _I_ _refuse to help your chances of—_ ” Hermann stumbles over the next word, “—seducing  _a man whose research is, at best, shoddily conducted, and at worst, completely—_ ”

“There’s going to be a million people there, dude,” Newt protests, “he’s not even going to  _see_ me, let alone give me a chance to  _seduce_ him. This is just to boost my ego in case, you know, he does.”

“ _As if your ego needs any assistance_ ,” Hermann mutters. He sighs a second later, and Newt knows he’s won. “ _Oh, fine, you child._ ” He pauses. “ _The shirt you were wearing, in that picture you sent last week. It was—nice._ ”

Newt knows the shirt he means. It’s literally just a plain green button-down, one he only ever wears when he’s lecturing because it’s so boring. He picks it up from the pile on the bedspread and examines it. “Just nice? Not lust-inspiring? Tantalizing?”

“ _I_ _t goes well with your eyes_ ,” Hermann says, sounding absent-minded, and then immediately makes a mortified choking noise. “ _T_ _hat is—I imagine someone else could, conceivably, think that_ ,” he adds quickly.

Newt smirks, but his cheeks are warm. “Sweet,” he says. “Thanks, Hermann.”

This is the third time today Hermann hangs up on him, and it’s by far the fastest.

 

~*~

 

Dr. Malcolm’s lecture is due to start any second, and Newt is almost vibrating in his fold-out seat. He did end up going with Hermann’s suggestion for the shirt, but he paired it with the tightest jeans he owns and a floral tie to mix it up. He doesn’t exactly look sexy, but he thinks it could be enough to make a nerd like Dr. Malcolm—because honestly, at the end of the day, he  _was_ a nerd—pause on the off-chance that he happened to glance in Newt’s direction, in this elaborate fantasy Newt’s cooked up.

Newt kind of zones out during the introductory remarks from a long string of people that are probably important, but he’s justified because it’s all either totally boring stuff he doesn’t give a shit about or jaeger-tech breakthroughs Hermann wrote to him about  _weeks_ ago. He’s yanked back to the present when people start applauding, and—holy shit—

Age hasn’t treated Dr. Malcolm unkindly. On the contrary, age has treated Dr. Malcolm  _very_ kindly. He’s still wearing the same leather jacket, the same glasses, and the same cocky smile that’s immortalized in fading magazine print on the wall of Newt’s childhood home, but he’s sporting a nice, full beard now, and his hair—still thick, but more wavy than curly now—has gone grey. He’s what Newt thinks some people might call a  _silver fox_. Or just  _really incredibly sexy_.

Newt, coincidentally, is both of those people, which is why he misses a big chunk of what Dr. Malcolm’s actually presenting on. He thinks it has something to do with twisting Malcolm’s discipline of chaos theory to study the Breach, somehow (and  _ha_ won’t Hermann be pissed when he finds out someone else is trying to hone in on his predictive model action, especially from someone he apparently hates), but he can’t say for sure, because  _oh my God it’s him_ has been his only thought since Dr. Malcolm took the stage.

The presentation passes in a blur. It’s the best thirty-seven minutes of Newt's life.

 

~*~

 

Newt’s still in a bit of a haze when he walks back from the convention center that night, though he manages to locate the hotel bar fairly quickly. He's here more out of boredom than anything; the cable, apparently, doesn't work in his room and Hermann isn't answering any of his  _please talk to me I'm bored_ texts (and especially not his  _help he’s still hot_ texts), so it's either this or finally reading the article he's supposed to have a review for by next Wednesday. The bar is the far more appealing of the two, even if the only other person there beside Newt is a businessman in the corner who's knocked back five whiskeys in a worryingly short timespan and keeps looking at the door.  _This dude’s definitely having an affair_ , he texts Hermann, and then spends several minutes trying to take a covert picture.

The specialty board is advertising a variety of gaudy kaiju-themed drinks, and Newt wonders if they're not in somewhat poor taste (pun unintended) even as he orders one. Still, given the art slowly creeping up his own forearms, he figures he's not in the best position to judge. He winces a little at the bright blue of the drink when the bartender sits it in front of him; he really wishes Hermann would text him back so he could complain about this, too.

When he eventually gets bored of texting Hermann elaborate life stories he's concocted for the businessman, Newt gets so absorbed in stirring the ice around in his glass and watching it melt that he almost doesn't notice when someone new comes in and sits down next to him. He doesn't bother looking up when the bartender asks for the guy’s order.

"Whatever he's having. The, the blue stuff,” the man says, and Newt nearly falls off his stool because he  _knows that voice_ , holy shit, it’s permanently ingrained in his mind from  _years_ of following interviews on YouTube and TV and radio shows. He looks up as slowly and as calmly as he can manage. It's  _Dr. Malcolm_. Dr. Malcolm is sitting next to him at a shitty hotel bar and ordering the same drink as him. Dr. Malcolm is smiling at Newt, Dr. Malcolm is unzipping his leather jacket and tossing it on the empty bar stool next to him, Dr. Malcolm is—even more handsome in person.

The bartender nods and walks away, and Newt can feel his mouth hanging open. "It's not good," he says in a rush once he remembers himself, his brain switching immediately into  _impress him_ mode. "The drink. It's too fruity. Artificial. Um." He tries again. "It's not the right shade for it to be kaiju blue, either, totally, completely, inaccurate, I mean, I don’t know where they got the reference for this, but the sample I managed to get my—”

Dr. Malcolm doesn't look phased by the random stream of words coming out of Newt's mouth at the moment, which is somewhat comforting. He waits until Newt finishes making himself look like an idiot and holds out a hand. "Dr. Ian Malcolm," he says, still smiling. "I'm here for—”

"I know," Newt blurts out. "I mean, I know who you are. I was at the conference. And your talk. And I'm, like, kind of a huge fan?" He blinks, and realizes he should probably shake Dr. Malcolm's hand, so he takes it quickly. His skin is soft. Newt immediately feels like a creep for noticing. "Dr. Newt Geiszler," he says, voice high. "But, um, just call me Newt." The joke about only his mother calling him doctor is on the tip of his tongue, but it dies in his throat; besides, it's lame anyway, no one has  _ever_ laughed at it in all the years Newt's been telling it.

Dr. Malcolm blinks a little in surprise and gives Newt a once-over, obviously noticing how relatively young he is, and then switches to impressed. New can't help but puff out his chest a little. "'Doctor'," Dr. Malcolm says, "a fellow, ah, chaotician? Or of the broader mathematics?”

"Biologist," Newt corrects. For good measure, and because he knows it sounds cool, he adds, "I study kaiju.”

The bartender sets Dr. Malcolm's drink in front of him, but Dr. Malcolm doesn't seem to notice. "Kaiju?" he says, further impressed, and Newt does his best not to preen. "Oh, exciting. You’re exciting. I like you. I've personally lost my taste for, uh, for getting close to large things that try, you know, to eat me. Not fun. But tell me, because you’ve  _intrigued_ me," he leans closer, "what is a kaiju biologist doing at a conference like this?"

Newt turns pink. "Scientific curiosity?" he offers weakly. He debates spinning a lie about being in the area and dropping in, but that sounds bad even to him and he very clearly has an MIT faculty badge clipped to his pants, so he lays all his cards on the table. "To be honest, Dr. Malcolm, I came because I heard you were speaking."

"Ian," Dr. Malcolm corrects smoothly, and Newt's heart skips a beat. "I hope I'm flattered, then. Was I, ah, appropriately charming and—and  _enigmatic_ for you? Not too—" he pauses to find a word, moving his hand like he's conducting an invisible orchestra, and Newt is reminded vividly of himself. He gestures vaguely to his face, his grey hair, "—ancient?"

"You were great," Newt says, probably too quickly. "You were really—I mean, chaos theory goes right over my head, I've read all your publications and I still don't get it, but you seemed like you knew what you were talking about, so." Dr. Malcolm smiles again, and Newt drops his eyes to the bar counter. He might be exaggerating his incompetence with Dr. Malcolm's discipline just a  _little_ bit—he's pretty sure any geek with wifi connection or a healthy love of science fiction understands at least the basis of the butterfly effect—but he's not going to pretend he comes anywhere close to Dr. Malcolm's level. (Also, it’s hot when Hermann tries to describe advanced theories to him, so he has a hunch he’ll have the same reaction if Dr. Malcolm does too.)

"You really are a fan. I  _am_ flattered. Most biologists aren't as, ah _—dynamic_ as you." Dr. Malcolm gestures to Newt's arm. "May I?"

Newt nods, not really quite sure what exactly is happening but being more than okay with it. Dr. Malcolm picks up his hand gently, cradling his wrist on the tips of his fingers. "Chaos theory—you could call it the, the butterfly effect, let's call it that—it isn't really too difficult to understand. Now, uh, see—" He looks around, catches sight of his untouched electric blue cocktail, and dips his finger in it. He hovers above the back of Newt's hand. "So. Tell me, Dr. Geiszler. Where will this drop land?"

Newt's heart is beating very, very fast. Dr. Malcolm is close enough for Newt to smell his cologne. Wordlessly, he motions to the groove between his ring and middle finger. The corner of Dr. Malcolm's lips twitch up and he brushes Newt's knuckles; the droplet rolls back towards his wrist, narrowly avoiding staining the folded cuff of his button-down.

Dr. Malcolm traces its path with his index finger. "Not what you—you expected, was it?" His voice is low; he's locked eyes with Newt. He’s not looking at his wrist.

Newt's holding his breath. He shakes his head.

"See. Unpredictable. We could do this all night and it'd be different each time. If you look very closely, quite closely at your lovely hand, Doctor—" Dr. Malcolm glances down, and the tendrils of color peeking out from the cuffs of Newt's sleeves must pique his interest because he stops in the middle of his miniature lecture. "Do you mind?" he says, and when Newt shakes his head again he slides one up a fraction. He brushes over his tattoos instead, murmuring in appreciation. "Like I said," he continues, gazing at Newt again as he trails his fingers up and down, "unpredictable."

Newt swallows heavily and manages to find his voice. "I bet—I bet you say that to all the scientists," he squeaks.

Dr. Malcolm winks. "Only the biologists." He lays Newt's hand back on the counter, lingering against the soft skin of Newt's inner wrist for a second longer than necessary. He finally takes a drink of his cocktail, and makes a face at the taste. "This," he says, or more like mumbles, "is something I could've predicted. Huh."

Newt's suffering mini-whiplash from the sudden lack of touch, and of Dr. Malcolm's voice no longer winding low in his ear. He blinks, dazed, and uncomfortably crosses his legs so Dr. Malcolm can't tell he's semi-hard. Had Dr. Malcolm been...flirting? Had Newt been flirting back?

Newt steels himself, throws all caution to the wind, and lays his hand overtop Dr. Malcolm's. "I have a room here," he ventures quietly.

Dr. Malcolm pauses; he gives Newt another, longer once-over. His eyes linger on the tie. "Here's to chaos," he says, raising his glass in a toast. He grins at Newt.

 

~*~

 

It's a little hard to kiss Dr. Malcolm— _I_ _an_ , Newt corrects himself, it's absurd to keep the honorific when the man in question is about five minutes from throwing him on his own hotel bed, but he can’t help it, it’s  _hotter_ somehow—when they're only a couple inches shy of a foot height difference between them. Dr. Malcolm leans down, at first, while Newt stretches up as far as he can, which is hard to do when he's being pressed against the wall at the same time. It's uncomfortable, and Dr. Malcolm makes of noise of disapproval into his mouth after only a few moments.

"No, no, hm," he says, squinting down at Newt, assessing him—he's taken off his glasses, but Newt hasn't. Newt’s almost blind without his, and functionality beats out sexiness. He mutters to himself for a bit while Newt pants, jeans zipper straining, impatient. Finally, Dr. Malcolm nods. "Dr. Geiszler," he says, sarcastically proper, "please, ah, if you will, hold onto me." He hoists Newt up, kissing him fiercely, and Newt instinctively wraps his legs around Dr. Malcolm’s waist.

" _Fuck_ ," Newt moans, as his back hits the wall. Newt thinks he should be offended at the brazen acknowledgement of how  _small_ a man he is, and he usually is when other guys try something like that, but with Dr. Malcolm it's one of the hottest things that's ever happened to him. Hands down. "It's Newt. Just call me—" Dr. Malcolm kisses him again, harder, dragging his teeth across Newt's bottom lip, then across his jaw, and Newt almost bangs his head back against the wall. He pitches his hips forward and nearly moans again when he feels that Dr. Malcolm’s just as hard as he is.

Dr. Malcolm bites down hard enough on his neck to leave a mark, his beard catching against Newt’s skin, and Newt yanks desperately at the hem of Dr. Malcolm’s plain black v-neck. "Fuck,  _fuck_ ," he repeats, gasping, just as eloquently as before, "can we please move this to bed, doctor, dude, uh—" Dr. Malcolm mumbles something incoherent against Newt's skin and carries him across the room, dropping him onto the mattress and crawling on top of him; it’s so hot that Newt feels lightheaded.

"Clothes," Dr. Malcolm mutters between bites on Newt's lower lip, as his fingers dance across Newt's chest, uncovered where he’s rucked up his shirt, "clothes clothes clothes." He undoes Newt's tie, works at his buttons, and Newt finally manages to tug the v-neck off over Dr. Malcolm’s head.

Dr. Malcolm kisses down his neck, across his shoulder, pressing bare skin against bare skin, and Newt’s head is swimming. When Dr. Malcolm grinds the heel of his hand against Newt's dick through his jeans, Newt sees stars. "Let me blow you," Newt gasps, or maybe whines, "oh, fuck, please, I—" Dr. Malcolm nods, and Newt wiggles out underneath him so he can frantically undo Dr. Malcolm's own jeans with shaking hands. He's a briefs man, Newt notes with a sort of detached mania, before he pulls those off, too, and swallows down Dr. Malcolm's cock.

Dr. Malcolm's hands go to his hair, gripping hard, his breath hitching, and Newt hums. Dreamily, even. He's living out every teenage fantasy he's ever had right now, so he's allowed to. Dr. Malcolm's comfortably big in his mouth, just enough of a stretch to be a pleasant burn, and Newt can't help the whimpers that slip out every time he bobs his head and takes him in as far as he can. He’s—more than enjoying this.

He circles the head with his tongue, and Dr. Malcolm tugs  _violently_ at his hair and his hips stutter forward to the point that Newt's almost choking. He doesn't mind it; far from it, actually. His glasses slide down his face and he moans, deep and loud and filthy. His jeans are getting unbearably tight.

Newt takes in a long breath through his nose and presses at the small of Dr. Malcolm’s back with one hand, encouraging him to thrust again. He's palming himself and fumbling with the zipper of his jeans in the other. "Most fans just want—just want a handshake, or, or a calculator signed, or something," Dr. Malcolm says above him, voice faint. “You’re quite the little pro.” Newt’s eyes flutter shut and he moans at the praise. He sucks harder, and gets the repeat performance he was hoping for; Dr. Malcolm yanks him forward by his hair at the same time he thrusts into Newt's mouth, once more, twice more, and Newt's eyes are starting to water and it's fucking fantastic.

When he can feel Dr. Malcolm starting to tense under him, he pulls off with a noise as obscene as he can manage and rests his chin on Dr. Malcolm's hip, grinning up at him, lips swollen and slick. Dr. Malcolm’s breathing is evening out and he seems a little disappointed, but Newt isn't quite ready for him to finish up just yet. "I have," he says, and he can feel himself heating up at the hoarseness of his own voice, and at what he's about to say, "um, lube. In the case on the bedside table."

Dr. Malcolm's eyebrows raise in surprise. "Unpredictability," he repeats. "You're a chaotician’s dream, Dr. Geiszler." Newt doesn't bother correcting the formality this time as Dr. Malcolm digs through his travel case of shampoo and random junk. He pulls out the little bottle and flourishes it happily in front of Newt. "Are all biologists as, uh, as prepared as you?"

“Couldn’t tell you,” Newt shrugs, "I’m strictly into mathematicians.” He winks, for good measure; it's not exactly a lie, anyway. He’s strictly into  _two_ mathematicians. (The lube has been in there since the last time he and Hermann were supposed to meet up, but they had to cancel last minute because Newt got the flu, but shut up, that’s not important.)

Dr. Malcolm looks delighted. "Bravo! What is that line from that movie, that quote? Out of all the bars in the world, I walk into yours, or you walk into mine, or however that it goes. It doesn't really—really fit here. We walked into the same one." He hums in thought. "All the bars within a mile radius of, of a convention center in Chicago and we walk into the same one, in your hotel. There. Adaptation. Ha, you must like that."

"Dude," Newt says, and he idolizes the guy, hero worship level, he really does, but seriously, "can I just ride you already?"

Dr. Malcolm laughs, and it's sort of a weird, drawn out chuckle that should definitely be killing Newt's boner, but the look he gives Newt when he tosses him the bottle makes up for it. "By all means, by all means.”

Newt gives him a thumbs up and starts shimmying out of his jeans. He doesn't look remotely sexy doing it—he might, if he bought a larger size—but Dr. Malcolm hangs onto his every movement anyway, which is nice. He kicks them off, and then his boxers, then opens the cap of the lube and gets to work.

Newt hasn't exactly been getting laid a whole bunch recently—spending every waking moment studying giant inter-dimensional monsters that are rising from the ocean is a bit of a libido killer—but he relearns it pretty fast. Soon he's panting and grinding against his own fingers while Dr. Malcolm watches with avid interest, legs still splayed open obscenely. "Interesting technique," he says mildly, as if he was commenting on the temperature, or a baseball game. "Are you—oh, oh, a fourth. I’m flattered, again. I don't think you need that, uh, many for me."

Newt pours more lube onto his hands, rubs them against each other to warm it up, and inches up the bed to stroke Dr. Malcolm's cock twice. Dr. Malcolm doesn't quite moan, but he breathes out in little huffs. It's an enjoyable sound, and he makes it again when Newt kneels above his chest and positions himself.

"Easy, go easy on yourself, little guy," Dr. Malcolm mutters, petting Newt’s hair awkwardly for a brief second, and Newt— _whimpers_ at the unexpected thrill of pleasure the combination gives him. He slides down on his cock all at once.

"Oh," Dr. Malcolm breathes, and Newt chokes down a loud groan of pleasure and closes his eyes. Dr. Malcolm’s hands fly up to his sides, digging his fingers into Newt's hips, and Newt hopes, fleetingly, that they leave bruises. He stays still for several, several long moments, waiting to adjust. Then, slowly, deliberately, he grinds down, feeling every inch of the stretch. Dr. Malcolm's fingers tighten, and his jaw goes slack. It's—Newt doesn't think he's ever been more turned on in his life.

He braces himself against Dr. Malcolm’s chest and lifts himself up, just an inch or two, before plunging back down, and the noise it drags deep from Newt is embarrassing. "Easy," Dr. Malcolm repeats between his rapid breaths, his eyes fixed on Newt’s cock as it bobs between them.

Newt ignores him and does it again, but this time coming back down harder. " _Fuck_ ," Newt gasps, "oh, fuck—" Dr. Malcolm’s fingers are in a vice grip and he thrusts up, gently, as Newt grinds down, and Newt's back arches. It's too much. It's almost overwhelming. "Do that again," he begs, his voice reaching a high whine. "Please, please—"

Dr. Malcolm snaps his hips up  _hard_ this time as he presses Newt down against him, and Newt sees white. "Can I," Dr. Malcolm’s voice is almost a groan, "can I move you—" Newt nods furiously, and Dr. Malcolm surges up to kiss him, rolls them so Newt's on his back, now. He pins Newt down by his wrists with one hand, above Newt’s head, bracing himself with it; he hitches up Newt’s leg with the other, and—for lack of a better word—starts fucking him in earnest.

Newt's lost his glasses, at some point, and he's not even forming coherent words anymore, and Dr. Malcolm is swearing under his breath. “Good, good,” Dr. Malcolm mutters in approval, and when Newt keens at the further praise, he laughs a little again, but it’s strained. “You—uh—like the—?”

Newt doesn’t answer—he can’t—but Dr. Malcolm leans in close and repeats “ _Good_ ,” his breath hot against the shell of Newt’s ear, grinding down on exactly the right spot and sliding his hand down his leg to stroke him once. Newt chokes back a shrill cry, his fingers clenching against air, and comes over their chests; Dr. Malcolm bites down on Newt’s shoulder and follows him a moment later.

Newt’s closed his eyes before Dr. Malcolm’s even rolled off of him. He feels boneless, and overwhelmed, and  _incredible_ , and holy shit. He listens as Dr. Malcolm’s breathing evens out. "I had a poster of you on my wall when I was a teenager," Newt mumbles. "I thought the leather jacket was sexy. And the glasses."

He opens his eyes fast enough to see Dr. Malcolm wince visibly, though he's blurry. "You have terrible bedside manner," Dr. Malcolm says, still out of breath. "Atrocious.” He frowns in thought. “Bedside manner or, or in-bed manner?"

"Pillow talk," Newt offers. He stretches lazily and hits his glasses, half-shoved in the chasm between mattress and headboard, with his hand. He happily pulls them back on and smiles when Dr. Malcolm—flushed, chest heaving—is a discernible shape again.

"Pillow talk," Dr. Malcolm agrees. He runs a hand through Newt’s hair again, now messy beyond help, and then across Newt’s jaw. "No pillow talk that reminds me how  _old_ I am."

Newt glances from the silver hair, to the beard, to the creases at the corners of Dr. Malcolm's eyes. He knows he should probably feel— _weird_ for sleeping with a guy well over twice his age, but he doesn't at all. Just a little—sexy-dirty. He’s not going to crack open that can of worms and examine it now, though. "Not gonna lie, dude," Newt says, and yawns, "you kinda look hotter now than, like, ever. The beard’s a good look, too. You’ve sort of got a whole  _sexy professor_ vibe.” Newt’s not opening that can, either.

Dr. Malcolm looks smug.

 

~*~

 

Newt doesn’t realize he’s dozed off until Dr. Malcolm is shaking him awake gently; he’s cleaned himself off and re-dressed, his hair re-styled (does he carry hair gel around with him?), his glasses back on. “Hi there,” Dr. Malcolm says, awkwardly as ever. “I’ll be, uh, off then.” Newt considers asking him to stay the night, but he has a flight to catch tomorrow morning and he’s too broke to pay the cancellation fee. He wraps a sheet around himself, instead, and sees Dr. Malcolm to the hotel room door.

"Dr. Geis—Newt," Dr. Malcolm corrects himself. "I remembered to do it, that time. Or, almost remembered.” He does his weird, extended chuckle-laugh again. "I suppose this is where we say our, our goodbyes. Our  _adieus_ , so have you.”

"I'd say see you later," Newt says, “but, like, slim chances.”  Newt doesn't exactly spend a whole lot of time lurking around math conferences, and judging by his career so far, neither does Dr. Malcolm. “And don’t make any more lame chaos theory jokes about that, okay,” Newt adds quickly when Dr. Malcolm looks like he’s about to say something, and grins. “So, instead, how about a ‘you were  _awesome’_?”

He stands on the tips of his toes and kisses Dr. Malcolm briefly, and fully expects him to leave. But—Dr. Malcolm lingers in the doorway, hands in his pockets, assessing Newt again. “Of course,” Dr. Malcolm says, “of course, this doesn’t have to be our last—let’s keep the  _en francais_ , our last rendezvous, so to speak.” When Newt’s eyes flicker to the carpet, Dr. Malcolm hums in understanding. “Oh. More looking for a, ah, lab partner in sickness and in health, then?”

Newt sneaks a glance at the green button-down, lying in heap next to his jeans. “I—think I am,” Newt says slowly, not really quite being able to grasp the level of ‘Dr. Ian Malcolm is into me and I’m turning him down for a guy I’ve never even met in person’ surreal this conversation’s at right now.

Dr. Malcolm seems to consider something for a few moments, and then shrugs off his leather jacket. He offers it to Newt. "Here," he says. "Assuming, uh, of course, assuming you still think it's sexy. I think it’ll work for you.”

It’s big, and a little worn, but Newt takes it, speechless. "Holy shit," he says. He pulls it on, not caring that it looks completely stupid over his sheet-dress, because it's warm and comfortable and it's fucking Ian Malcolm's leather jacket (and it smells like his cologne still). "Holy shit," he repeats. He turns in a circle and models it for Dr. Malcolm. "Dude," Newt says, seriously, "I hope you know I'm never going to take this off, ever.”

Dr. Malcolm only smiles. "Best of luck with your aliens, Dr. Geiszler."

 

~*~

 

The next morning, Newt's waiting for his flight back to Boston to take off when his phone  _finally_ buzzes with a text alert from Hermann. It looks like a peace offering.  _How was the convention?_

Newt mulls it over. He’s wearing the leather jacket.  _Uneventful_ , he replies.

**Author's Note:**

> i have nothing to say for myself (edited as of 11/28/18 to fix weird spacing with italics a year later lol)
> 
> dedicated to sarah and rachel, not because they have any desire to read this (the opposite, in fact), but because i typed it up on my laptop while i was sitting next to them in starbucks last weekend


End file.
